


Out of the Frying Pan

by NeverEnoughCats



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bad Puns, Bring In The Wingman Squad, F/M, First Dates, Grillby more like Grillbae, Light Angst, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Really Frisk, Reader-Insert, by complete accident, squad goals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverEnoughCats/pseuds/NeverEnoughCats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sorry. Thanks for waiting. They’re very, uh, enthusiastic that we’re going to the show.” You pause for a moment, then force yourself to speak before you regret it. “Do you mind if I hang out with you?”</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>A gut-twisting mixture of worry and excitement gnaw at your insides. “Great, because they’re going to put us both on stage if they don’t see us together."</p><p>---</p><p>In which you accidentally date Grillby out to watch Mettaton's last performance for the Underground. Your friends try to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All That Glitters is Mettaton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rockinmuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/gifts).



> Alternatively titled 'DATE FIRE GODDAMMIT'.

It’s hard to believe how easy travel is since no one tries to kill you now.

It isn’t even a matter of wanting you dead either, just the act of fighting. You’ve died to a Shyren at a concert and Mettaton seemed just fine with killing you live on TV, but that was before the Barrier was broken. Now, you find yourself backtracking down a dream-shattered déja vu, each echo of your footsteps seeming to greet your return. Through hallways, elevators, bridges – everyone tells you that they’re leaving for the overworld, where they belong, but part of you aches to ask about what would happen to their homes Underground. Would the humans come in? Is anyone staying? What are Snowdin and Hotland but simply hollow names, without their people?

It’s like a homesickness you never thought you could have for a place that was never, but feels so much better than home.

The echoes get wetter, softer, like they sense the twist in your heart and are shifting away to give you room. Your footsteps still sound, solid and ever there, against the stone ground. Cool blues and purples surround the enclosed world around you. You glance at the direction of the River Person, wondering whether a quick trip would be better.

No, you couldn’t leave Napstablook out on the celebrations and farewells. That’d be terrible.

The snails greet you with philosophy and trivial updates, the Waterfall’s core greets you with slick, cool grace, and Mettaton greets you with a photogenic smile that looks like he’s got a camera planted somewhere for a staged encounter.

“There you are, darling!” the superstar starts, his voice as enthusiastic as you remember. How long ago was that, before the fight, before saving your friends? Mettaton gives you no time to ponder, his voice capturing your attention like the mental manipulation it proves to be. Barriers, spotlights, troupes, and it’s all too sudden when he puts a golden ticket into your hands.

You blink and say nothing, because you don’t know when is interrupting when it comes to Mettaton. The ticket has his face on it, gleams like it’s been glazed by sugar syrup – it’s probably a scratch and sniff _and_ taste but you don’t really want to find out.

He grins at you. You stare at him, try to smile and rephrase the words 'sorry I wasn’t listening to that last part.'

It takes a moment too long. Before you can speak, the robot performer takes your prolonged silence for something else. “Speechless, darling? I know, we should really be performing on the surface by now, but this will be our final performance for the Underground, a grand swan song!” He spreads his synthetic arms, smile wide, yet, it falters. He lets out what could have been a robotic huff of breath, a hollow chuckle. You can’t tell. “All your friends will be there. I had Alphys pass out the other tickets. Oh, wait till you see the stage. It’s much better than our little dancefloor back at the Core.”

The twist in your chest lightens. You mirror his smile, catching a shy glimpse of white from the other side of the area. “Thanks, I’ll be there.” you promise. Maybe it’s rude, or maybe expected, but you don’t care when your feet turn on their heels and momentum brings you straight to the headphone-wearing ghost.

They stare straight through you with a glimmer in their two-dimensional eyes. You follow their gaze to Mettaton, then look back. It takes a slight smile and wave to get their attention. You don’t blame them; Mettaton is magnetic both literally and metaphorically.

“Hi, Napstablook,”

“...oh, hi.” The uncertain shape that is their mouth seems to form a smile, but drops it almost instantly.

“So, Barrier’s gone, and you’re working with Mettaton now, huh?”

“Yeah… it’s kind of weird now… everything’s changing so quickly…” Napstablook pauses. You see a glint of gold in their… well you wouldn’t call them hands. “This is awkward but… Mettaton gave me a ticket even though I’m performing with him…” They hold it up, as if a peace offering for a fight that didn’t happen. “Do you want it? It’s okay if you don’t.”

Your brows furrow. After all you’ve been through, sparing and saving and even getting Undyne on your goody-two-shoes side, rejecting Napstablook seems to be one of the worst sins you could commit.

“Sure. Thanks, Napstablook,” you say as you take the second ticket. “I’ll see you tonight. You’ll be great.”

“...thanks for cheering me on.”

You give a wave to both ghost and robot as you leave. Snowdin next, with the Monster Kid to talk to and the Royal Guards to pet.

The tickets seem to shine despite the dim glow of the Waterfall.

* * *

The cold still catches you by surprise.

You can only guess it’s the result of mixed magic that the layer of snow stops neatly before the Waterfall, and the temperature drops so abruptly that you regret not investing in warmer clothes, or, at least, playing around the Waterfall. You cross your arms in attempt to both dry and warm them, but the main challenge is stopping your body from shivering.

Leaving Snowdin is fine. It’s returning that’s bad.

You swear you can hear Sans saying how much Snowdin is a n-ice place to call home. You’d punch him if he were here. Then he’d just tell you to chill out.

You check your surroundings just in case.

Snowdin hasn’t seemed to change much after the Barrier broke: It’s still a comforting mixture of whites, greens and browns, warm welcomes balancing out the cold air. You’re not sure how everyone is going to leave this home, but with magic, you don’t question it.

The Royal Guards gather in front of the closing library, but as much as you pet their heads and scratch behind their ears, all you can focus on is the shambling, writhing form of their parents.

Alphys took the dying ones, didn’t she?

You shake your head to clear your thoughts. Everyone’s rejoicing. There’s no time to think of the dirty greens of the True Lab and bright gold of prototype vessels; the jerking, empty fridge and the waving shadow behind the curtain’s emptiness.

Everyone speaks and cheers about their future, their freedom, the surface. The librarian tells you that you can make as much noise as you please and you considering screaming. No one’s reading, either way.

But there are friends waiting. Checking your cellphone – Toriel and Sans are fighting over the phone – you make quick work to visit the next place. You could scream later.

To say Grillby’s is warmer than all of Snowdin would be an understatement. Everything from the warm hues of wood and leather seats, to the scent of food and friendliness, to the sources of light and warmth, all mix and swirl in the strangest concoction to tempt you to stay a little longer than you want to.

New drinks and hot guys, human food and bathrooms, culture shifts and poker. Most conversations flow one-sidedly, and the excitement that fills the monsters’ voices makes you wish you had some yourself. Even though you fell behind the Barrier, you don’t feel trapped at all, and it doesn’t feel like freedom anymore.

You ignore the knot in your guts in favour of taking a seat by the bar. Either your face resembles that of a heartbroken drunk, or Grillby naturally approaches any customer without being called. You try not to blink at the bright luminescence of his form, try to look at him right in the area where most creatures would have eyes. His glasses help, though now you wonder whether they fit him.

Staring must be considered acceptable for a monster who can’t, because he does nothing but give you an encouraging nod. “Good job.” he says.

You blink and straighten up, not wanting to slouch on the bar and seem inattentive. Resting your jaw against the dip of your palm, you ask, “Your work?”

“No. You.”

You blink again, feeling like a drunkard and a fool. Oh. _Oh_. Actual direct attention this time. Did he want a response? You wear a grin for him and try to laugh amiably, but only manage to sound nervous. “Thanks.”

He’s still idly wiping the same mug since you first came into the place. You consider asking if he has anything else to do.

“How did you know?” you end up asking instead. Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. “You weren’t even there, were you?”

“The Barrier broke.”

Another chuckle. You remember the colours, so many colours, and swirls of white from who knows how many others. You stop trying to laugh. “It wasn’t even me.”

He stops, puts the mug and cloth down, and rests his palms on the bar counter. “You made it possible.”

The knot twists tighter, scratching and snagging against your insides. Aren’t praise and recognition supposed to make you feel good? After all that happened, people know your name, but not what you did. You push yourself to sit properly as you feel your phone vibrate again. “Thanks, Grillby, it means a lot to me.”

He nods, lingers there like he wants to you keep talking. You don’t know whether it’s because he’s done this to drunks or because he doesn’t seem like one to tattle despite his job, but it works and you end up spilling. “Most monsters just talk about themselves, their futures, their hopes and dreams. It’s nice and all, encouraging, but…” you end with a wordless hum and leave it up to interpretation. You shake your head and try a lighter tone. “So, what are your plans, then? Everyone seems to be leaving. You setting up shop there?”

He nods, picks up the mug and cloth and resumes the idle action of wiping it. Maybe he just has to look busy. “I’ll see you there.”

“If I can find it.” you jokingly respond. The neon sign to your right flickers as if indignant, or maybe it’s just winking. A last meal here would be nice in case you never find the place, but with a glowing fire monster as its boss, the chances seem low. You dig through your pockets for extra gold anyway.

A crinkling noise sends worry spiking through your veins.

Mettaton’s glossy golden face smiles at you from the tickets. Not a full minute passes before you look up at Grillby. “Hey,”

His silent attention is all you need to hold up the spare ticket.

“Do you like Mettaton?”

Grillby pauses briefly.

You take it as a ‘yes’ and shrug. “He’s having a final concert tonight, back in Hotland. If you want, we can go see him.”

The flicker of his head reflects on the gold like a strange puddle of Mettaton. You swear you see hesitation on his nonexistent face.

You furrow your brows. “Is it the Waterfall? I can fetch an umbrella. Or we can skip all the trouble by boat. It’s dryer.” You place the ticket on the counter in front of him, give him time to take it as you shake you head. “No, you know what? Better safe than sorry. We can do both if you want to go.”

Your phone vibrates insistently in your pocket.

Words get harder to form as you get up, feeling the rush as you remember that you still have the Ruins left to visit. “Sorry, uh,” You glance at your phone – Undyne is texting from Papyrus’ phone in all caps and emoji. She’s made a whale and claims that it’s a fish. “You can pass it to someone else if you don’t want to go. I’ll be back in half an hour with an umbrella if I don’t see you here.”

The snow startles you by making your feet dip lower than you remember, but it doesn’t stop you from making your way to the Ruins. The only thing that does is whether your promise was as clear as it was in your head. Grillby still being there in half an hour means he isn’t going. Otherwise, you need an umbrella. Closing early doesn’t seem to hurt, with everyone packing up, but you wouldn’t know. Half an hour is still early enough to change minds.

 _He's a smart guy_ , you tell yourself. _He'll make sense of it_.

The train of thought vanishes once the Ruins' door looms over you. You swallow thickly, trying and failing to wet your throat before you step inside. Purple becomes yellow becomes purple again.

And then, gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this pilot. While my sis does all the Dishonored fics, I've gotten rusty. We have better puns for later and a whole date planned because the Grillbae needs more love. Cherish him.


	2. Going Off the Deep End

“ _Don’t you have anything better to do?_ ”

No, you want to say. No, you want to scream. You promise yourself that you would scream later, you would stay longer, but no, you can’t, you have to go, see the world, take care of Mom and Dad, forgive and forget, leave and _live_.

Your grip around the dull scarlet umbrella tightens. It’s poised by your feet like a fallen warrior’s sword as you lean against the damp wall, eyes closed, keeping the statue company.

In reality, it’s the music that keeps you company.

You rock your head side to side in time with the soft chimes, the little heartbeat of memories. Nostalgia claws and curls in your chest like thorny vines and you pray there’s a rose somewhere within the sharpness of it all. You tell yourself that the Underground is just a name, that its true essence is its people, and you’ll still be with your friends after everything.

The statue is dry now.

You open your eyes to stare at the blues around you, like an otherworldly mixture that is neither sea nor sky, somehow more earth than ever thought possible. The air is cold from rain and distant snow, but not enough for you to see your breath. You exhale just in case, hoping to see nature paint the reminder that you’re alive.

Nothing.

Distant tapping fills the void around you like a fog rolling in, too solid and rhythmic to be the rain against the floor and umbrella. You jolt upright with searing liquid panic, but your body refuses to do anymore more than glance around.

The music still plays. You want it to both stop and never end.

A false sun catches your eye, mainly because it’s the only thing that stands out from the sea of cool hues. The red folds of your umbrella are too dull to try challenging. Grillby’s pace is as steady as you’d expect, but it’s anything but reassuring when your mind snaps out from its tune-induced trance.

“Grillby!” you call out and you don’t know why; he’s close enough to know you see him, even if he looks a little different. He’s lost his bowtie and traded his vest for a blazer – you wait for Sans, but nobody comes. The boots seem out of place the most, like Grillby’s ready to run for survival, but you suppose it’d be better to travel in than dress shoes. The only thing about them that disturbs you is their wet sheen.

Self-consciousness worms its way into your thoughts. Your shoes are dirty from use, wet from snow and rain. Your shirt and pants share a number of scorch marks from Toriel’s test, rips from Undyne’s spears and indescribable pink goop from Mettaton’s show. Looks like your clothes won’t be seeing the surface again.

Then you remember where you were, why you came. You thrust your umbrella against the floor for leverage, legs waking up reluctantly. “Oh god, Grillby, I’m really sorry. The music, it, well-” You stop yourself, change the topic. He doesn’t have to know. “Why are you even here? We’re late, aren’t we?”

“You are,” he states, but it doesn’t sound like he’s angry.

An apology spills from your lips regardlessly. You have to look up when Grillby stands right in front of you, offering a hand. It’s warmer than you are prepared for – which, to admit, you aren’t – but it’s not exactly hot, more of a styrofoam cup of hazardous coffee than fire itself. Most of all, it reminds you of Toriel’s fireplace.

With your other hand still clutching the umbrella, you rest your forehead against your wrist instead. “God, this is off to a bad start already.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you time to recollect yourself the best you can. It isn’t much, not with the tune ringing through the corridor.

You worry at your lower lip and tap the umbrella free from imaginary dust. “Sorry, got carried away,” is the only thing you can think of to say. “But at least we can get going now, right?”

“Right.”

Your gaze trails back down to the lonely statue. “Right.”

Grillby waits for you to show a sign that you’re ready, tests the waters with a gentle tug on your hand. You follow as he leads you away from the miniature storm in the distance, the mossy statue and the haunting melody. He’s slow, generously patient, like waiting for a rabbit to leave its burrow and still giving you time to think twice and retreat. Like he’s done this before. Another lifetime, another SAVE file, or perhaps just another customer.

Guilt snakes around your chest, suffocating and smothering you until you feel like a child. The muffled memory of clambering a mountain surfaces like a dream, out of grasp and out of mind – mostly. He shouldn’t be anywhere near the Waterfall, and you shouldn’t be anywhere near that music box.

Grillby squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.

* * *

Snowdin’s gone quieter. Monsters are either packing up, moving out, or already gone, leaving the barest hint of home and life. The houses seem to litter the town now, instead of embodying it. It reminds you of empty seashells along the beach, only now, it’s not the sudden emergence of a hermit crab that unnerves you, but the absence of one.

The cold air bites your lungs, but it clears your head of any silly melodies.

The only thing in your head is the ringback tone, phone in hand and Toriel supposedly on the other end of the line. You rephrase and practise your message mentally, only to have the words dissolve when Toriel picks up.

“ _This is Toriel._ ”

“Hey, Mom.”

There’s giggling, a muffled ‘ _Toriel put it on loudspeaker I wanna hear ‘em!_ ’ and rustling. You can hear the wind on the other end, someone shushing harshly. “ _Are you having fun visiting the rest of the Underground, my child?_ ”

“I went back to the Ruins.”

“ _Oh._ ”

You decide not to tell her what you saw. “I’m in Snowdin right now. You guys are still going to Mettaton’s show, right?”

Undyne groans in distant static at the mention of Mettaton. “ _Hotland? Again?_ ”

“ _Well you **were** wearing full armour back then. Now you’ll do even better in casual wear!_ ”

“ _Fine. Alphys, can you take my jacket?_ ”

“ _M-me? Uh..._ ”

More rustling. Alphys is screaming. Undyne is yelling in triumph.

Something bumps against the phone. “ _Alphys and Undyne are a little wrapped up at the moment._ ”

“Hi, Sans.”

“ _Hey kiddo, we’ll see you at the show. I’ve got snacks to toss around._ ”

You can only assume Mettaton will catch them by the mouth. Shaking your head, you trace back to what you wanted to say. A glance at the River Person on their boat reminds you generously, especially with Grillby beside you. “Guys, uh, I’m going there with Grillby by boat.”

“ _Water you waiting for?_ ”

“Sans.”

“ _Aww, the human is waiting for you! We mustn’t disappoint! Let us leave for Hotland at once!_ ”

The phone fumbles and thumps more. You feeling like hanging up and just texting. “ _Whoa wait, you’re bringing a date on a night like **this**?_ ”

“No!” The volume of your own voice startles you. Giving Grillby a sheepish smile and hoping it suffices an apology and excuse, you return to the phone. “Guys, no.”

“ _B-bring gifts!_ ”

“ _Something that’ll light up his eyes._ ”

“He doesn’t have any.”

“ _Then he won’t see it coming._ ”

You stab the umbrella into the snow. “Dammit, Sans.”

“ _I, the Great Papyrus, will personally prepare a delicious dinner of spaghetti for you both afterwards!_ ”

“Please don’t.”

“ _Fight him! Shove him into the snow while you’re still there and snow-wrestle him!_ ”

“ _Perhaps a cup of tea would be better for the first date?_ ”

“ _If I see you without him, I’ll personally have Mettaton call both of you on stage. Also no desserts._ ”

“You’re not my mom.” you retort even though you don’t know who’s talking anymore. You briefly consider the possibilities before Toriel offers to bake some pies to share after returning to the surface. You cover your face with your free hand, hoping that it would lift from heat off your cheeks.

It doesn’t help when Papyrus asks whether you’ve put on clothes for him. You look down at your pathetic attire, feeling underdressed. “Yes.”

The phone thumps for the umpteenth time. Toriel’s voice returns again, firmer and gentler but not as welcomed as you hoped. “ _This is Toriel. Don’t worry about us, child. Enjoy your evening with Grillby. We’ll see you after the show. There’ll be plenty of celebrations once we return home._ ”

The dial tone drones at you mere heartbeats afterward. You stuff your phone back into your pocket with a defeated sigh and look up at Grillby. “Sorry. Thanks for waiting. They’re very, uh, enthusiastic that we’re going to the show.” You pause for a moment, then force yourself to speak before you regret it. “Do you mind if I hang out with you?”

“Not at all.”

A gut-twisting mixture of worry and excitement gnaw at your insides. “Great, because they’re going to put us both on stage if they don’t see us together.”

You think you see him raise an eyebrow. It’s hard to tell since he’s literally made of fire and magic. You’re past the point of questioning monster logic.

Better to just carry on.

The River Person greets you with a side-to-side sway of their head, cloak rippling like water despite how small the rhythmic movement is. Maybe it’s not the movement that’s disturbing their cloak. “Tra la la." they sing. "Care for a ride?”

You look at Grillby for affirmation first. He nods, but the fire of his head seems slightly smaller now, no longer flickering wisps as you often see. Part of you wonders if it’s fire etiquette not to burn brightly around others, or if he was already like that in the Waterfall.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, then stop when you offer him the umbrella. “Hey,” you say as he takes the flimsy shield, “thanks for just now.”

“You’re welcome.”

The umbrella opens with a flourish, sounding like the beat of a great bird’s wings. A miniature red sky hovers over Grillby, catching his luminescence with the mockery of a sunset. You can’t tell if he’s satisfied or uncertain, but he follows when you approach the River Person and their boat.

“Can you take two people?”

“Tra la la. I can take two, but I don’t know if I can give back.”

You blink once. Looking back at Grillby, you shrug and say, “I’ll go in first. That way, if it tips, you can run off.” You take a step onto the wooden boat. It sways with the extra weight.

“Careful.”

“Don’t worry about me.” You plan each step to be aligned to the middle of the boat, tongue caught between your lips. It is not the river that rocks the boat, but the movements on it. You don’t want to risk unbalancing anything. The boat feels smaller as you edge closer to the unoccupied end, deciding to stand and save space just in case.

“Well,” you say to Grillby, “your turn.”

His steps are slow, hesitant, an unnerving change from the swift confidence he wears back at his bar. You try to understand his reasonable caution, thinking of the water as acid or lava, something that would fizzle your light away. You offer a hand in case he needs it – _he doesn’t,_ you think, _he’s doing fine._

He takes it.

The role reversal has the corners of your lips twitching up.

You feel the boat move beneath your feet. The River Person continues to sway to a tune you cannot hear. “And we’re off...”

Grillby holds the umbrella above both of your heads and you can’t help but admire the sunset gradient of warm hues against its false sky. With the umbrella raised a comfortable height, you’re thankful he’s tall, almost challenging Papyrus, even winning if you count his flickering flames.

You tentatively push the umbrella away from you so that it shelters Grillby better. “You need it more. We’ll be passing through the Waterfall again.” you say, glancing up at the ceiling to emphasize your point. A drop of water lands square on your nose and you jolt back in surprise. “Yeah, already here. This’ll be fun.”

He gives you a questioning look. You reply with a wordless grin.

Silence barely has the opportunity to settle before it’s broken by the River Person. “Tra la la.” they sing with a voice of neither a man or woman. “Dancing on a boat is danger. But a good exercise...”

You cringe for Grillby. “Please don’t.”

They don’t look back at you. You take it as acceptance, because they haven’t started singing and dancing on a goddamn boat.

The rain falls onto your already mussed hair and tattered clothes. It doesn’t make much of a difference whether it’s cleaning you or making you worse. Above you, star-like gems begin to fill the ceiling, tempting you to cause unrest in the silence.

“Well, last day in the Undergrounds. Any wishes, Grillby?”

He peers up at the stars past the edge of the umbrella’s canopy. If silence were a cat, you’re fairly certain you just shoved it off your lap and sent it bolting for Grillby. It stretches around him and surrounds him in muffling fur.

Realisation hits you like a cuff to the back of your head. You breathe in a hiss through your teeth. “Sorry. Never seen them before today, huh?”

“The Echo Flowers,” he answers, “they told me.”

You furrow your brows and look from Grillby to the stars, then back again. “You listened to them?” you ask, promptly resisting the urge to smack yourself for the obvious question. _Of course he did, or he wouldn’t have said that._

“I was hoping they would lead me to you.”

You can feel heat rushing to your face and the tips of your ears. The lifting rain is not helping. “God, you better not talk like that when my friends are around or they’re gonna…” you trail off to contemplate the possibilities. Even as your hands begin gesturing subconsciously, you take note not to flick any water. “Well, I don’t know what they’ll do, but if that earlier phone call meant anything, they’re gonna do something.”

Grillby looks away from the sparkling shards after a good five minutes of thought. “I wish for everything to get better.”

You hear yourself chuckling quietly before you can stop yourself. “That’s heartwarming – no pun intended.” you assure hurriedly, then let yourself settle back down with the calming sounds of the river. “I wish it comes true.”

Silence cautiously prods at you before curling up in your warmth. You consider checking your phone now that the rain’s gone, partially because apprehension crawls down your back and you need a buffer.

The first notification is a text from Sans with a list of fire-related pickup lines. The second is from Alphys asking whether Grillby has a golden ticket to the show.

‘ _Why_ ’ you text back with exaggerated defiance tugging your lips.

‘ _bcos there’re 2 types of tickets???_ ’

‘ _Why_ ’

‘ _go to the new vip part ^.^_ ’

You narrow your eyes at the bright screen of your phone. That either meant Mettaton has actually started considering friendship as important, or Undyne is going to shove you and Grillby in a private cardboard box.

‘ _Alphys is2g I will wreck your cosplay if you set us up_.’

‘ _NOOO IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!!! WE ALL ARE VIP I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW WHERE WE’RE GOING T.T_ ’

You decide to end the conversation there and let the anxiety brew.

Below you, the river begins to morph into luminescent cyan like a great serpent. The stars fade from both ceiling and reflection.

Blue light looks nice on Grillby, even if he’s taken the role as the person under the umbrella on a boat – no, _especially_ since he’s under the umbrella. It captures the light, rather than challenging it like when you both had to walk past the winding rivers on your way back to Snowdin.

You pull your gaze away from his face, letting it trail down to his boots. Still wet. Your lips form a lopsided frown. “You know, you shouldn’t walk through water for anything. I’m sorry about that.” You let out an empty chuckle, remembering the return trip. “And you had to do it twice.”

“It’s fine.”

You don’t look up. “Does it hurt?”

“Not with the boots.”

“Snowdin life, huh?” you guess, unsure whether snow actually melts in the Underground. He’s warmer than most monsters you’ve touched – not a lot, but enough to compare him to Toriel and the dogs. Vulkins are hotter, but you think that’s because you gave them a full body hug.

You think he nods at your question, but you can’t tell when you focus on the water instead. Its glow slowly vanishes as if falling asleep. Grillby’s orange glow reflects off the water in broken, glassy replicas. The air grows warmer, but not as humid, and the reflection grow as their real life counterpart does. You can feel your clothes drying.

“So, why not stay in Hotland?” you ask, curiosity curling up your throat. “Is the Waterfall stopping you, or is it the people?”

He doesn’t answer. You find yourself fine with that.

The temptation to sit down rises, mostly because you want to rest your chin on your hand and cover your mouth as surreptitiously and casually as possible. “Is it weird to feel like this day is like the music back at the statue?” you ask, but not for an answer. “I don’t want it to continue, but neither do I want it to end.”

Grillby lowers the umbrella, careful that none of the water drips near him, and closes it. You don’t stop him when he reaches out a hand, silently requesting permission to pat you on the shoulder. It’s warm, solid, comforting – of the few monsters you’ve spent time with, you realise he hasn’t put you in harm’s way.

In fact, your friends have tried to kill you more than he has.

It’s both a comfort and a concern.

The boat soon docks at Hotland. Grillby leaves it first, then offers you a hand as you follow suit. The River Person sings a farewell as you both head north for the elevator, the umbrella’s tip occasionally meeting a step with a sharp, light sound.

You survey the area, expecting to see your friends.

But nobody came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questioning own grammar, recalling times when I was comforted by someone squeezing my hand, becoming trash.


	3. Sinner and a Show

The elevator doors close like a sealed pact.

You lean against the wall as mechanical hums fill the small enclosed area, running a hand through your hair before rubbing the back of your neck. If there’s anything convenient about Hotland, it’s that you don’t have to worry about soggy clothes weighing you down.

That’s about all the benefits you can think of.

The knot of apprehension has grown into a snake, crushing your lungs and smothering you. You still give a laugh void of amusement as you glance everywhere but at Grillby.

“Something’s troubling you.” he comments.

“I’ve got to lay it down,” you admit with another thin chuckle. “Your night is about to become an MTT-brand production as soon as the show starts. Hell, maybe it already is. Sans wants to know if things are getting heated, Toriel wants to bake with you and Asgore has invited you for tea.” You pull out your phone for emphasis.

Grillby simply nods.

“They’re going to set us up.” you sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, Grillby, you’re not a bad guy. Heck, I’d be surprised if you weren’t taken. I just need you to know what’s happening.”

You see him shifting his weight before resting both hands on the umbrella’s handle. “I understand.”

Knocking your head back against the wall, you force yourself to look at him directly. “So now what, roll with it? Maybe objecting will stop them, or maybe it’ll just encourage them to do more. I don’t know.”

“Get back at them.”

You blink. “Revenge? Who are you and where’s Grillby?” you question, narrowing your eyes at his hint of mischief. Same flare, same clothes, same air of modest confidence, but now he’s playing a game you could get used to.

“Keep talking.” you tell him.

He smiles at you knowingly like he’s keeping the punchline a secret. “Pretend to date, pretend it works. Let them think they’ve won.” The flames of his head seem to grow despite how levelled his voice is, whipping with a nearly sinister air you never thought he could create. It settles down as soon as he says, “Then we break up.”

You cross your arms, wondering whether Grillby was actually kidnapped and replaced at some point. “You done this before?”

“No.”

You grin widely and push yourself off the wall. “Then this will be fun.”

The elevator lets out a ding as it abruptly slows to a halt and opens its door. You look at Grillby, making sure it’s still the nonchalant bartender of Snowdin. When he fully resumes his usual demeanor, you reach out to hold his hand without hesitation from either you or him. From the lack of anyone waiting for your arrival, you know that you’re getting into the charade early, but you justify this as practice.

“We’ll make it realistic. Nothing too much, too sappy or cheesy. No pet names, no cooing, and nothing more than casual contact.” you decide, voice above a whisper. You can feel his warmth despite the heat of Hotland, or maybe that’s just you.

“That sounds good.”

“We’ll keep it up for… tonight or two weeks?”

“Tonight.” he answers. It sounds more promise than decision. Fortunately for you, no monsters are around to hear and misinterpret it.

Your footsteps fall in synchronization as you two approach the resort, hand in hand.

* * *

A bird-like monster, who is at least fifty percent teeth, eats half your ticket to verify it. You just have a Mett Tic now. Grillby’s one promptly meets the same spit-slick fate.

An excited Papyrus crashes into you the second you enter the door, scooping you up into a twirling hug. “Human! I, the Great Papyrus, am absolutely delighted that you have decided to share this very special occasion with a date! Even if that date works at a greasehole that doesn’t serve spaghetti.”

“Hi, Papyrus, please put me down.”

“He just wanted to take you out for a spin.” Sans says from beside you when your feet return to the floor. Grillby doesn’t flinch at his apparent sudden appearance.

You turn to face Sans and offer a dry laugh. “Haha. And I’m absolutely giddy that you can tell me puns in the flesh.” you challenge, a grin splitting your face at the two-in-one pun.

Papyrus is groaning.

Sans just shrugs, hands in his pockets. “You know, Toriel and I were just in a heated debate over whether you and Grillby would even be a good match. Hope you two have a bright future.”

Papyrus is screaming.

Part of you wants to smack Sans while the other half dismisses him. “Heartwarming.” you retort, crossing your arms. “Don’t burn yourselves out over that. I have to admit, it’s kind of uplifting that you guys are playing the wingmen.”

Sans pauses, the white pinpricks in his eye sockets vanishing briefly in resemblance to a blink. He gives you a lazy pat on the back as a reward for your efforts. Though the battle of puns will never end, you feel satisfied that you got the last say.

You watch as he takes a seat, humming indifferently to Papyrus’ scolding on the necessity of puns. You look back at Grillby and cock your head in your friends’ direction.

The place isn’t much for improvement other than extra merchandise and a good view of the stage. Surprisingly, nobody pushes you to sit next to Grillby. Undyne and Alphys are missing, and Asgore sits a respectful distance away from Toriel. It’s not hard to find a seat, just one without extreme advertising. Under your chair, you find a small basket with a pink glitter pen, a plushie of Mettaton holding a picture of Mettaton that has been signed by Mettaton in pink glitter.

You take the glitter pen and shove the plushie back where you found it.

It takes too long, maybe twenty minutes, before you hear the door slamming open. You twist in your seat like an oversized meerkat to see Undyne carrying a flustered Alphys bridal style, the former’s leg still up in mid-kick.

“HERE COME THE BRIDES!”

Alphys curls into a ball of yellow scales and embarrassment to avoid smacking against the doorway as Undyne bounds through, yelling loud enough for echoes to bounce in the open area. The crowd you can’t see grows quiet from shock, before their murmurs start up again.

To her credit, Undyne plops the ball of Alphys beside you gentle enough that she doesn’t bounce off. She unravels like a flower, although less graceful and more ‘flop’ than ‘floom’. The dress she wore for her roleplay date with you is partially covered by Undyne’s jacket.

The entire row of seats shudders when Undyne leaps over the backrest and takes the seat next to Alphys. She leans forward to give both you and Grillby a fanged grin. “Did we miss anything good?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think the main event was with you all the while.” Your eyes flicker to a red-faced Alphys, eliciting a hurried shush from the pile of reptile-shaped trash.

Undyne barks out a laugh. “Flirt with your own, kid.”

You rest your cheek against your hand, making sure to lean towards Grillby, but not enough to invade his personal space. From the added warmth, he must have mirrored the gesture. You don’t check for the sake of seeming casual.

“When does the show even start?” you ask to no one in general. “I thought we were late.”

“The only one fashionably late is Mettaton. He’d be late for his own shows.” Undyne rests her chin on Alphys’ head with little to no objection.

“I-it was actually supposed to start half an hour ago.”

You turn to face Grillby. Seems like you had plenty of time despite your self-indulgent not-sobbing beside a singing statue. Maybe you two should have let the duck carry you over the disappointingly small gap for an hour or three instead of wallowing through water.

Undyne’s voice catches your ear again as she sprawls her arms to hug her girlfriend limply like a sloth with a tree. “Anyway, that’s why we came twenty minutes late. We bought Nice Cream. I have no money now.”

You pout for the sake of pouting, crossing your arms for good measure. “You didn’t buy any for us?”

“I saved you the wrappers, but they evaporated on the way here.”

You keep pouting.

“They said that they hope you have a spectacular day,” she quotes, a glint in her eyes, “and that you look nice today.”

You look down at your clothes. “Sarcasm.” you mutter. “I think that one’s for you, Grillby.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s listening.

“You could say he looks pretty hot.” Sans voices from directly behind you, too close for comfort. At this point, you don’t question his shortcuts even though he's two seats away.

“Sans!” Papyrus groans, dragging his phalanges down his face.

You turn around in your seat. “Yeah, Sans, that’s the lamest pun you can make.” You pause to think, then continue with a hint of rusty drama, “And of my _date_ , no less!”

God you hate acting.

“I’ll admit I’m a little outdated.”

“OH. MY. GOD. SANS! STOP BOTHERING THE HUMAN’S DATE! THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT TIME OF BONDING!”

“Yeah, they’re stuck like glue.”

You check the distance: you’re barely touching Grillby. “I beg to differ.”

“That’s not the only thing you’ll be begging for tonight.”

“SANS!” Papyrus howls. “THAT’S NOT EVEN A PUN!”

Feeling your face heat up, you decide to close your ears to the conversations, but it’s hard to ignore Toriel chiding Sans before both break out the puns. Of all the conversations – Undyne and Alphys planning an anime marathon night, Papyrus groaning at Sans’ and Toriel’s puns – you can’t help but notice the absence of noise from Asgore. He’s distanced himself both physically and emotionally, watching Toriel a tad wistfully, but mostly content.

When he notices your gaze, he smiles in greeting. “Pleasant evening, isn’t it?”

You nod even if you can’t see the night sky.

He looks away, but the smile remains. “I want to comment on how delightful it is for you and Grillby to be together, but I’m unsure whether on it’s appropriate yet.”

You discreetly bite your lower lip. The charade doesn’t seem obvious enough to a monster who has lived through love and heartbreak, but you’re uncertain whether Grillby would take it up to the next level. You’re not even sure how to ask him about it without anyone hearing.

Toying with the cap of the glitter pen, you thank Asgore for respecting the relationship. “Would be nice for the ambassador to have a human-monster relationship, huh?” you joke – at least, you think you are. Politics is basically a huge joke.

Asgore gives a good-natured chuckle. When you’re sure no one’s looking, you pop the cap off the pen. Pink stains your wrist as you scrawl an ungraceful ‘ _don’t think this’ll work_ ’.

It takes a moment for you to register that Grillby’s sitting on your dominant side, and it takes even longer for you to rest the pink-written wrist near him without looking too awkward. At best, it’ll look like you want to be _close_ to him. At worst, it’ll look like you _want_ to be close to him.

You consider the magnificence of word stress as he glances at your bad handwriting.

He shares the armrest with you. The entwining of fingers is hard to play off as casual when you can hear Toriel gasping in delight. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to a monster you’ve barely spent a day with.

You want to pull away from the contact for many reasons: that you don’t think you can keep up the act, that the place feels too warm, that you can’t bare to purposely mislead and disappoint friends like Toriel and Papyrus. But Grillby holds your dominant hand and you don’t want to try writing with the other near-incompetent hand.

You let his hand hold yours until the lights dim and an announcement sounds for people to take their seats, switch off their phones and keep their hands, arms, legs and feet to themselves. Applause cues will play in case anyone is bad at timing and/or cannot follow the crowd. Any rulebreakers will be escorted off the premises by security and that would suck a lot.

The doubtful glittery writing catches Grillby’s glow like the river did. You hastily try to swipe it off against your pants, only to find it still there, albeit a little smudged from not fully drying.

Realistation dawns upon you. It’s not a pen.

It’s a fucking Sharpie.

From the smell of metal and mixed berry, you’re fairly certain that it’s the main ingredient of Mettaton’s lipstick. Hell, it probably _is_ his lipstick in a pen. You shove both hand and offending pen into your pocket, deep enough the markings leer only if you shift your wrist to a particular angle. Good enough.

The waiting music that reminds you of elevators and toilets changes, and a familiar ambience fills the air. Then, a familiar song, all before the curtains are pulled as if to prevent the song from stopping when the show actually starts.

From the familiarity, chances are that it is.

You start to hum the Shyren’s song to yourself, before offhandedly commenting that the performance with Mettaton was a fabulous pain in the ass. Dancing to a fast-paced song, dodging M-marked hearts that spilled goop, boasting and disappointing people as per usual, posing at your weakest, eating sequins and glitter glue, switching clothes and throwing a fucking stick.

Grillby doesn’t say anything more than, “I saw.”

You don’t know whether your ears heat up because you’re embarrassed that the fight was broadcasted everywhere, or because he watched it happen.

Resigning yourself to a less-than-comfortable fate of MTT products and Grillby’s mutual company, you sink into your chair and sigh. Before long, the curtains furl back with extra sparkly bursts of glitter and a rather rectangular Mettaton wheels up onto the stage, a microphone that isn’t even turned on in one hand as he waves to hollering crowds with the other.

“Good evening, beauties and gentlebeauties! Welcome to the tonight’s performance, the MTT’s Underground Grand Finale™!”

The audience somehow manages to scream louder. You grimace.

“Starring, written, produced and directed by yours truly, Mettaton!”

Louder. You sneak a glance at Grillby – he doesn’t seem affected by the racket.

“Featuring original music by the talented Napstablook and Shyren!”

Your gaze trails to the side as you struggle to recall a memory where you swear Grillby reacted to disturbance, like a faded photograph that you can barely make out. Regulars were at the bar, and he was… nervous? Perhaps he was just concerned. Sans hadn’t visited and your fingers were smooth with dust because _you just wanted to see what would happen if–_

“And in honour of the Underground and all its beautiful monsters!”

The audience absolutely loses it as one excited, writhing entity when Mettaton finally addresses them. You blink awake at the uproar and let the dream-like memory go, grateful that most of the Underground are here so no one suffers a sleepless night.

Mettaton lifts a finger, and the crowd falls silent as one. For a robot consisting mainly of geometric shapes and Disney-gloved noodle arms, he gives the impression of tilting his head coquettishly. “Except you, Burgerpants.” he both deadpans and coos. The entertainment bot doesn’t drop his hand, just opens it palm-up and raises the audience’s cheer with it.

Seeing Napstablook and Shyren on stage, you wave to them with your free hand, knowing that they probably wouldn’t see you but trying anyway. Then you remember that your wrist still has glitter ink on it. Stuffing your hand back into its pocket, you ruminate on how to wash it off once you get back home.

“So, my darlings, let us end this extraordinary night of fabulous freedom!” Mettaton holds his free arm behind him. “WITH! A! BANG!”

Too many things happen at once: The microphone is hurled offstage, the audience roars as explosives go off, and glittery grey-pink smoke consumes the stage and rolls off heavily. You choke on the air – it smells like the pen, all metal and mixed berry and Mettaton – and you have to pull your burnt shirt up to your face to filter what you can.

Monsters are hollering and screaming like they’ve never seen Mettaton EX before, much to your growing disbelief. You nearly died for his show business and here you are, watching the spectacle unfold. He hasn’t changed much save for a fresh metallic sheen to his everything. His arms look newer since they blew off and his boots seem higher in more ways than just their heels.

You give Alphys a look. She smiles wearily, laughing and fiddling at the hem of Undyne’s jacket.

“He looks good.” you say, nudging her for attention. “You did great.”

“T-thanks.”

The music soon changes, filling the void with something less energetic but still celebratory. Napstablook and Shyren don’t exactly take the stage as much as they continue it, having been there since the curtains were drawn, and Mettaton’s usually outrageous dance routines have been altered to something more symbolic.

At least you think it’s symbolic. You can’t understand shit.

As far as your theatrical experience and knowledge go, they’re performing an over exaggerated portrayal of the Barrier breaking. The spotlights flash, simultaneously dazzling and dizzying, but otherwise spot on. As for the cast, you have your doubts. The events don’t tally with your memory, but you suppose a glorified inaccurate ending would be easier to explain than what had really happened.

No one remembers it but you.

Nevertheless, you narrow your eyes and lean forward, as if agitated and ready to spring down to slap Mettaton with his own boot. “That didn’t happen.” you mutter defensively. “The Barrier wasn’t Burgerpants-shaped at all, though I guess it was pretty void of anything hopeful.”

You hear Sans laugh from behind you even though you see him two seats beside you, next to Grillby.

With a grin challenging Sans’ permanent one, you lean over Grillby’s lap to look at Sans properly, even waving a hand for his attention. “The Barrier just kept going for infinity. I’d tell a story about it, but I don’t know how it ends.”

“Sounds like you could go on for an eternity, kid.”

Papyrus’ voice joins yours and Sans’, hushed and sounding more hurt than irritated in the dark, “Sans! Human!”

“Sorry, bro.”

“Yeah, sorry, Papyrus. Keep watching the show.” As you lean back, you shoot Grillby an apologetic look in case you disturbed him too with the puns. Somehow, he seems easier to understand when neither of you speak now; it doesn’t take more than a glance to see that as much as he isn’t angry at the puns, having dealt with Sans for years, he would appreciate the silence.

People have told you they see faces in fires. Now, all you see is everything but a face.

You try to focus on the main show: Burgerpants, wrapped tightly in clingfilm, is promptly dropkicked off the stage. Nobody catches him.

Nothing new, apparently.

Time seems to slip through your fingers and stand still all at once, stuck in a dark, skyless room with interweaved performances. You’ve lost count over how many songs were sung and dances were danced before the intermission – how many can MTT even make in less than a day’s notice? – but Shyren is soon in the middle of the stage, no longer the backup singer for this song.

The urge to yawn stirs in the depth of your chest, eliciting tears to blur your vision. You don’t know if Shyren’s doing this on purpose, but her melody gets into your head before you can register the growing drowsiness. Regretfully, you stifle your yawn against a hand, before tugging your torn sleeve up to wipe the tears away.

Around you, your friends seem unaffected. You can only assume it’s because they’re not human, or that you really should have paid for a room at Snowed Inn or the MTT Resort. Your eyelids droop heavily and you smother another yawn.

The only testament that you ever fell asleep is the sound of a camera waking you up.

You jolt upright with a start, hot adrenaline briefly coursing through the fleshy shell you call your body. You glance around wildly for the camera, stopping at Alphys’ claws. “Alphys, what the hell?”

She passes it to Toriel before you can snatch it away. “Sorry,”

“You just look so precious like that.” Toriel explains as if in continuation, smiling and giggling softly at the photo. The adrenaline melts away from your limbs. “The lighting’s nice. Oh, I cannot wait until we go home together.”

At the mention of lighting, you look at Grillby, feigned accusation on your face for him not helping you. You think he smiles at you. It tempts you to pull away the hand he’s been holding, but instead, you look at Toriel and try to be diplomatic – it’ll be part of your job as an ambassador and you could use the practice. “Same here, Mom.”

She smiles, about to speak before Asgore interrupts her, “Toriel, I’m sorry, but we need to go address our citizens soon.”

Her glow fades with her smile, replaced by reluctance that is not quite bitter, not quite cold. You can only imagine what it would be like to be seen as someone once left behind in disgust. But she cares for people, she cares for the Underground, and so you watch her leave for her duties.

There’s an escort waiting for the King and ex-Queen at the doorway. You half-hope that Toriel or Asgore would stop to ask for you to join them, to explain what had happened to the Underground – Flowey, Asriel, the Barrier. The little light dies as they leave without a word. You sink back into your seat and bite your lip. They didn’t know what you did, what happened, _who_ happened.

“ _Why even try?_ ” a Lost Soul had asked mere hours ago, face a glitching haze, body a familiar form.

You still haven’t found an answer.

Perhaps it’s better that way.

Mettaton’s voice rings throughout the place, building up a crescendo of words and anticipation before announcing the King and Queen. You blink, noticing that the stage was covered in more confetti and glitter than you remembered.

God, how long was that nap?

King Fluffybuns and Mom are on stage before you can estimate an answer, and the whooping, screaming, cheering crowds greedily dissolve your concentration. You think you hear them talking about the relief, the War and the future. You think you hear them because you aren’t listening, focus drawn away like a wayward kite when Grillby lets go of your hand and gets up to follow Sans.

The latter winks at you. “I’ll be back with the light of your life in a flash.”

Your eyebrows furrow. You don’t recall hearing a conversation, let alone one about them leaving. Then again, this is about Sans who defies logic and Grillby who defies the spectrum of sound – sometimes.

You hear the footsteps of only one as both of them leave.

On stage, Toriel has the microphone now. Guilt riddles your guts as you try to piece together what you missed. “... Though I shall resume my position as Queen, please do not see me as the King’s Queen, but as your Queen. In addition, to better improve our future relationship between monsters and humans, the King and I have appointed an ambassador.” Hesitation lingers in her voice like a growing stain. “They are, in fact, human, and one of the reasons why we have achieved freedom. I believe they will do well as our ambassador due to their diplomatic and pacifistic manners.”

You attempt to let your seat swallow you at the mixed responses: some still cheer, while others murmur questions at your human status. The change of voices from Toriel to Mettaton gets more muffled the deeper you go. Papyrus pulls you out before you can fully disappear into the chair’s abyss.

“Human, I can see that you are worried, but fear not!” he says as he pulls you to stand up with him, one bony hand on his chest. “I, the Great Papyrus, will be there to support you no matter what the circumstances!”

“Y-yeah!” Alphys cheers. “I’ve seen your progress. You’ll do great!”

Papyrus closes his eye sockets and puffs out his rib cage like a bird of some sort. “The future of monsters is now, and I want you to know that you are and will be a huge part of it!” When his eyes open, the smile he wears is as sincere and hopeful as you can imagine.

A sudden weight nearly throws you off balance if not for the fact it snatches you back. Undyne grins at you as she slings a scaly arm over your shoulders.

You smile at them. “Thanks, guys.”

Papyrus’ grin grows as much as a skeleton can. “Since the future is now, you’ll also be a huge part of Mettaton’s show tonight.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

Undyne’s weight on you shifts, and gravity drags its claws down your legs as sudden pressure builds at your throat. You cough, kick and hiss feral-like at the fish, one hand grabbing at your shirt collar that she holds you from like a scruff, the other batting at Undyne herself.

She laughs at your failing attempts to hurt her. “Come on, Alphys!” Undyne beckons to the reptile. The latter freezes, lips refusing to properly form words even as her girlfriend scoops her up with one strong arm. The most she gives is a weak, breathless wheeze of fear.

A harsh cough wrecks your throat when Undyne momentarily jerks you into the air to hold you by the waist, her arm pressing against your ribs painfully. You hiss. “Guys, what the _hell?_ ”

“Sorry, kid, but they saw you without him.” Undyne reminds you, adjusting her hold on you so that it becomes a little less painful.

You don’t ask who ‘they’ are.

“ _And now, citizens of the Underground, MTT presents to you an extremely special performance!_ ”

Oh god they’re announcing it. Giving up on physical strength, you resort the the next worst thing you can do: drama. “Papyrus!” you howl, tears forming more from the stings of being manhandled than betrayal. “Papyrus, I _trusted_ you!”

His smile falters. You think you might actually win this one with him.

“ _Romance! Suspense! Drama! Because what is an MTT-brand show without a little violence?_ ”

Undyne jumps back onto her seat in anticipation. “Ready?”

“No!” Alphys cries out, covering her face with her hands and curling her tail defensively.

“ _Let us begin our grand, one of a kind game show: Extreme Double Dating™!_ ”

You squeeze your eyes shut, stomach lurching at the change in gravity, weight and movements. All that fill your ears are screams – some of which are your own –  and the tormenting wind whipping past. The pressure around your waist vanishes abruptly, giving your body little to no time to adjust and adapt.

You meet the stage floor with a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No way am I letting Grillby remain flat in a world of complex characters. I, like King Fluffybuns, am also bad with names. Also, wingmen.


	4. Who's Fine With This Anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the points don't matter. That's right, they matter as much as whether you prefer butterscotch or cinnamon.

Your face is covered in glitter. You have a feeling that you’ll never be able to wash it all off for the rest of your short human life.

The stage is brighter than you had previously assumed, too many spotlights to appease Mettaton’s skewed perception that more light meant more glory. Alphys likely had his visual receptors the ability adjust any perceived lighting, because your eyes are burning behind the arm you shielded them with.

Mettaton's voice blares from your sides, giving the barest hint of direction; “Introducing our lovely contestants: Undyne, former captain of the disbanded Royal Guard! She has long protected the Underground and enjoys intensive friendship building and combat sessions!”

A scaly hand, too soft to be Undyne’s, grabs you, trying to hoist you up.

“Alphys, I’m so wrecking your cosplay after this.” you growl under your breath, not caring whether you’re heard over the game show music.

“S-sorry…!” She dusts as much glitter and confetti off you as possible, leaving you uncertain whether she was in on this or not. Anxiety brews in her eyes as she bites at her lip, but you don’t know what she’s nervous about. As much as you know Alphys, you can never be sure whether she has everything under control or not at all.

Mettaton continues, “Alphys, ex-Royal Scientist and utter anime trash! She discovered Determination and combined most of our supposedly dead and dying family members into Amalgamates!”

The audience seems to be taking that fact rather well, their cheers continuing. You think you hear the Royal Guard dogs howling. It takes too long for your eyes to adjust and see the family of fur and fluff.

“Grillby, Snowdin’s best and only bartender! Quite a novelty for a fire monster to be living in Snowdin, and here on MTT, we adore the unique!”

At the mention of Grillby, you glance around the stage in search for him, only to find him already beside you, accompanied by Sans. You manage not to flinch on stage and on the record that Sans just _does_ things you’d rather not ask about.

His grin grows wide when he notices your attention. “Told you we’d be back in a flash.”

“My eyes hurt and I hate all of you.”

Sans closes his eyes and shrugs uncommitedly. “If it brightens your day – at least, you know, what’s left of it – Grillby’s really in his _element_ in Hotland.”

You want to groan at the light and fire puns, want to try yanking Sans’s hood over his grin, but noticing the truth of his words was more interesting: if you were poetic, you would have wondered whether Grillby had transformed into hellfire in sharp clothes, with the flames of his head swaying and snapping the air around more than they did back in Snowdin. But being thrown onstage in glitter and bright lights had eaten away most of your poetic liberty, so you could only think of the result of re-fluffing a wet Pomeranian.

No, a Pomeranian wouldn’t fit. Grillby would be a quiet, low-maintenance dog.

You clear your mind with a shake of your head. Sans is gone by the time your vision fully adjusts. All that remains is a small jar of literal Fireflies and Hush Browns. The extremely silent brown butterflies cluster and cower away from the burning flies and you can almost imagine what they must be feeling, forced into an unwanted situation.

“You left me for _this?_ ” you question Grillby, almost accusingly if not for the fact that you are more confused than hurt.

This time, his silence isn’t welcomed.

“Last and possibly the least: our official monster-humanity ambassador! They are one of big reasons why Extreme Double Dating™ is commencing tonight! As far as their friends say, they spend too much time staring at screens, escaping reality and sinking as low as Alphys on the Trash-O-Meter!”

You ignore Mettaton’s insults in favour of grabbing the jar and setting the poor bugs free, hoping that the Fireflies don’t burn the Hush Browns into Harsh Browns. You don’t need a dozen snarky, cruelly truthful butterflies on your ass when there’s already Mettaton.

The audience’s excitement raises tenfold at the timely release of brightly burning and muffle-winged insects, assuming that it was a pathetic but pleasing parody of Mettaton’s overdose of glitter and smoke.

You feel your eye twitch involuntarily as you swiftly shove the lid into your pocket. Your fingers, both jagged and curled, press hard against the glass jar.

Grillby takes it from you before you can smash it over someone’s head.

Mettaton continues to redirect and drown in the attention you – or rather, the insects – briefly stole. “Tonight is the premiere of Extreme Double Dating™, a spectacularly spontaneous, action-packed, suspense-smothered game show all for you! For every show, two romantically engaged teams will compete against each other to prove to the whole Underground just who are better lovers!”

You’re both thankful and grudging that Grillby took away that jar or else Mettaton would have been sparkling from more than just the glitter. Glass shards would be a good look on him.

So much for being a pacifist.

“Our teams for tonight are Undyne and Alphys as Team A!” Mettaton pauses to let the crowd cheer, smile wide and eyes gleaming at the liveliness of it all. “And Grillby and the human as Team B!”

Your face grows blank, too done with everything to bother looking defiant or offended. Now monsters won’t learn or remember your goddamn name. Forget the Barrier, you became a messiah and all you’ll ever be known by is ‘that human’.

Grillby pats your shoulder in attempt to console, but the gesture turns hollow when Mettaton takes the opportunity to comment until the casual action becomes anything but casual. The crowd doesn’t care, eating up whatever nonsense Mettaton spews.

Screw it, you could play his game.

With Grillby’s hands full with the empty jar and umbrella from the Waterfall, you slip your arm to loosely hook his arm instead. The crowd screams and you are forced to stop murmuring lest you go unheard. “I can’t do this.” you admit.

Your apparent date gets the audience hollering by shifting the jar into the crook of his elbow, just to hold your hand properly.

Mettaton practically beams. “Well then, looks like Team B is already trying to milk a few points early.” With an elaborate swing of his arm, he turns to properly address the crowd. “Both teams will be split into different types of partners: Undyne and Grillby as our lovely Alphas, and Alphys and the human as our beloved Betas!”

The lover and beloved – it reminds you of something you’d rather not remember. You don’t know whether having your name ignored is more offensive than being considered a Beta. Then again, to have Grillby as the Alpha doesn’t sound too bad.

You narrow your eyes anyway.

“Through a series of engaging, love-oriented games, both teams must accumulate points to decide who are the winners! The winners get to do something _very_ special with moi.” Mettaton promises with a wink and a hand tracing his chest flirtatiously. “The losers get to do it twice and clean up the mess.”

Your eye twitches again. You try to bury your face into Grillby’s sleeve in attempt to smother yourself and hopefully wake up to the sound of a camera, back in your seat. The audience only coos at the apparent affectionate gesture.

“I can’t do this.” you say again into the fabric of Grillby’s jacket, muffled and nearly incomprehensible.

“I know you can.”

“You’re not helping.” you mumble, partially defeated. At this rate, defeat tastes sweeter than any victory.

Reluctantly, you pull away to face reality once again. Cyan electricity cages all five of you onstage, as is standard game show practice. Napstablook is fading away and Shyren is floating to hide in the theatre’s ropes above; Undyne has Alphys in her arms and a grin on her face when Mettaton holds up a remote control with a comically large button. He somehow manages to make the simple action of pushing the button graceful.

The stage floor trembles, lights overheard blare in warning, and rainbow confetti rains down like they want to drown the whole Underground. Four podiums emerge from the floor like an affordable but decorative cemetery, a red and blue on each side of the stage to represent the teams, differing in shades to represent the partner types.

The virtual backdrop lights up in greeting. With the camera focused on Mettaton’s smug, photogenic and infuriating smile, the screen is filled with infinite virtual ghosts of Mettaton, movements running through screen after screen like a wave.

You step back at the overwhelming changes, squeezing Grillby’s hand as if the action would anchor you. “Oh god.”

You duck your head instinctively when a bird monster, the one who ate half your ticket, swoops close to drop sashes over you and Grillby. Pale blue blinds you until you pull it down your face. Glancing around, you pick up on the pattern quickly: deep blue for Grillby, pale red for Alphys and deep red for Undyne.

You clutch yours and stare at it, wide-eyed. “Oh _god_.”

“Contestants, kindly take your places for our first game!”

You glance up at Grillby, a mix of bewilderment and apprehension tugging your lips into a half-grimace. He tries to assure you with a quick squeeze of your hand and a troubled smile, even if you can read that he, too, does not want a part in any of this. There’s no escape from an MTT-brand show and you both know it. He’s just comforting you for your sake, and you hate that fact more than you do at your friends setting you two up live in front of the entire Underground.

The comforting expression vanishes when he lets your hand go and walks towards the dark red podium. You watch him get greeted by an overenthusiastic Undyne who tries and fails to headlock and noggie him.

Alphys approaches you, red sash hanging from her shoulder and curling around her waist limply. “So, uh, about the cosplay…” she starts, cautiously tugging you to the Betas’ side of the stage.

“I will wreck it.”

“I swear that I had nothing to do with this!” Alphys grabs at her sash in emphasis. “Mettaton already had this planned for me and Undyne.”

“And when did Grillby and I become part of this?” you shoot back, eyeing her for a moment before curiosity has your gaze roaming the podium. It is less of a platform for speeches, more of a small table at chest height. A blank white screen takes up most of the space, but there is a pile of blank Mettaton-scented cue cards at the side, along with a pen, a clip-on microphone and a dial that – curiosity be damned – adjusts the height of the podium.

“I-I don’t really know,” Alphys answers, poking her fingers together as you reach over to adjust her pseudo-desk’s height to fit her. “When you called, we were just so happy for you.”

You eyes remain half-lidded as you raise your brows briefly. “Uh-huh.”

“You’ve been flirting and dating almost everyone on your journey.” She counts her fingers with each name, “Toriel, Napstablook, Papyrus, Undyne, me, even _Sans_ of all monsters.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, if what Sans says about the files being called ‘dates’ is true. We didn’t know if you were serious. Then Grillby happened.”

“Uh-huh.”

“T-then Undyne told me she’d couple cosplay with me if we had this game show tonight–”

You slam your hands onto the podium to spare your face from the pain. “Alphys,” you begin, staring down at your reflection in the screen, “Undyne would have couple cosplayed with you regardless of the show.”

Alphys goes quiet.

You rest your weight on your elbows and attempt to fold the provided paper to a reasonable size. “And now we’re here,” you drawl, “live in front of the Underground, dancing to Mettaton’s little tune.” You shove the paper into your mouth, chewing to soak it in spit, then swallowing before the taste gets to you.

Alphys’ mouth hangs open as she tugs at her dress collar. You think you hear her laugh breathlessly.

“Now I am stuck here, with you, paired with a date I know for less than a day.” you coo, voice sickly sweet like the scented-paper, tilting your whole body sideways to hover over Alphys’ head. Your inhale is nothing more than a static-hazed wheeze.

Alphys shrinks away. “...Are we still going to cosplay together?”

At this point, the only thing you haven’t decided is whether you were confused, frightened or past the point where you were done with everything. All three at once sounds like a concoction worthy of drowning yourself in alcohol. “I’ll think about it.” you answer, slouching against the podium. Screw your public image.

Lights of every colour within and out of the spectrum flash, signalling the start of the first game. You brace yourself the best you can, reaching over to clip on the mini microphone.

Mettaton bounds across the stage in an elaborate swirl of silver skin and pink heels. “Our first game is the classic quiz show, where our contestants will be given a series of questions about each other!” he announces. “Every correct answer rewards them points. Each contestant is to write the answers of the questions their partner will be asked. Their partners will answer aloud.”

You freeze, clutching the microphone tightly to your chest. The urge to swear bubbles and froths up your throat, but you remember that MTT is a family-friendly entertainment company and swearing would likely be more trouble than it’s worth.

“For dramatic tension – courtesy of Alphys – contestants will have their arms tied after writing their answers!”

 _That is **it**_.

“This is bullshit!” you yell, slamming a fist against the podium and trying not to flinch at the pain. “You can’t put me and Grillby up against Alphys and Undyne; they’ve been dating for god knows how long! Grillby and I barely know each other for a goddamn _week!_ ”

Uncertainty and judgement rise and weave throughout the audience. Whether at your cursing or you admitting to be dating a stranger you’ve known for hours, you don’t care.

Mettaton’s gaze changes when it settles on you, hollow and absentminded as if you were a creature to be examined. It makes you clutch the microphone and back away when he approaches, the action demanding and commanding silence.

He stops, stares, smiles. A chuckle is all you get before he bursts out laughing, hand covering his mouth. You nervously chuckle in kind. “Oh, what was I thinking, darling? Oh course we can’t that!” he proclaims, petting your head. You don’t try to stop him. “We’ll lower the bar for you two just this once. Instead of a quiz on how well you know your partner, yours shall be a quiz to help you know your partner!”

He pinches your cheek harshly, causing you to bite back a yelp. The pain radiates, sore and sour, and you can’t tell that he’s released his painfully affectionate hold until he’s waltzing back to the centre of the stage. You glare at the robot, but any threatening aspect of it dissolves as you rub your cheek.

The pale blue screen before you lights up as the music changes. You pull out the glitter pen in your pocket and wonder how much of MTT you can vandalise.

**BONUS ROUND**

You blink. “Since when did bonuses come at the start?”

“Trust me, when it’s Mettaton, it’s unorthodox.” Alphys explains, too vague for your liking.

“He tried to make me into a cake.” you point out.

Alphys’ nervousness dissipates, replaced by something that reminds you of the time before your ‘walk’. Toriel had wondered why any monster would flirt with her, and now Alphys wears the same expression she did then.

You raise an eyebrow indifferently, not wanting to prompt or stop her.

The two-sided coin of a reptile looks away and picks up her pen. “Who said nobody wanted to have you for dessert?”

You don’t say anything, just rest your cheek against your free hand as you read the questions presented on the screen. It instructs you to number and write one answer per cue card. The bonus questions glare out in pink compared to the rest.

**1\. What were you wearing?**

**2\. Who spoke first and what did they say?**

“It’s like asking about the baby.” you comment, leaving thick-lined pink words on the cards – _gross bandage, Grillby_. The second half of the question stumped you, drinking up the seconds as you weighed the possibilities. Did you ever speak to Grillby or was it all Sans? Did ‘start’ mean the first encounter or the date?

You chew on your lip as you jot down a ‘ _good job_ ’ on the second piece of paper before the timer runs out.

**3\. What are your fears?**

The glitter pen taps the paper once, rests on it until pink spreads like a mockery of blood. You save the question and card for later.

**4\. What are your bad habits?**

You made a noise akin to a dying lawn mower and a choking cat, or maybe a choking cat pushing a dying lawn mower. Mettaton’s making you confess about your screen-staring, trash-formation and less-than-socially-accepted fantasying. You suppose that ‘poor attention span’ might work too since you have been getting distracted by sights and sounds and Sans’ puns.

**5\. What is your most significant quality?**

_DETERMINATION._

**6\. Who deals with the spider?**

_Me, with money._

Goddamn Muffet.

You tapped your marker against the last paper. Six questions didn’t seem like much, but when you do the math, that easily meant more than twenty questions. Plenty of time to waste, given the logic of communication and its accompanying errors. Plus, who would want to watch four people silently scribble something they couldn’t see?

Unless they could. The thought makes you care enough to defensively reorganise simple stack of six cards while watching the others. Alphys is Alphys, handwriting all messy yet readable, sometimes pausing to think or mutter about Mettaton’s choice of questions; Grillby seems to be coping just fine, writing at a steady, calm pace; Undyne, on the other hand, clearly displays her determination to win with her signature smile.

It takes another minute for the timers to go off. The same teeth-bird monster lands in front of you and Alphys, collecting your answers in separate maws. You watch as it flutters to pass them to Mettaton.

“How was it?” Alphys asks, glancing at you with piqued interest.

You can only shrug before a bell rings somewhere backstage and the backdrop flashes excitedly. Mettaton barely even glimpses at the answers on everyone’s cards, preferring to wear a grin and have the audience cheer in anticipation. He waits for it to die down before the snapping of his fingers slice through the air with regal echoes.

You find yourself covered in spiders.

They make quick work of your wrists, politely tugging at your hands until they’re behind your back and close enough to tie together with magic-infused silk. An otherworldly sensation of warmth and coolness creeps up your arms and down to your fingertips, numbing them in nonexistent gloves. You wait until most the spiders skitter down your legs or return to the ropes above before testing your bonds – though you fail to feel your fingers, you can still twitch and curl them if you tried. The silk is unsurprisingly soft yet sturdy, keeping your hands where Mettaton wants them. You ascribe the admirable handiwork to Mettaton actually paying the spiders well. One of them even tucks a flower into your hair, much to your bemusement.

It seems to be the only flower to stay on – Alphys’ falls off her head, Undyne shakes her off with an animalistic and enthusiastic roar, and Grillby’s one disappears into the fire you consider as his entire head.

You stare at him, wondering whether the books back at Snowdin’s library spoke truth. Besides the school assignments, you recall the line about monsters needing the intent to harm. Grillby either dislikes flowers or the idea of wearing one in his not-hair, because the temperature you experienced in the Waterfall was nothing close to burning.

When he notices and returns your gaze, you shoot him a lopsided grin, trying to convey the message that you’re trying even though you said you couldn’t, knowing that you’re lying for either one or both.

Despite how his flames dance like hellfire, now trailing smoke and leaving ashes from the flower, his smile assures you more than it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why would Grillby even follow Sans?"  
> "Well they're friends and he'll probably be back with a basket of really weird food."  
> "Why not bugs?"  
> "Why not hash browns?"  
> "Brown: a satyrid butterfly, which typically has brown wings with small eyespots."  
> "You're brilliant. Let's get married."
> 
> Please do not eat paper.
> 
> Sans helped Grillby to gain a Mega Evolution.  
> Grillby is [hellfire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3NoDEu7kpg) because you're all sinners.


	5. Wild Guess, Mild Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return.

To your surprise, Mettaton keeps his word.

The robot, like his maker, has confused you from time to time. Reality and fabrication would rarely make a significant difference in regards to him. The only reliable constant is the fact that Mettaton does things for show business, but it still leaves a questionable amount of uncertainty over his integrity. You previously thought that ‘lowering the bar’ was just another MTT-produced loophole, that it would be less of a hurdle and more of limbo.

Tonight is another level of hell either way.

Your fingers fidget with what they can as you watched the rapid-fire game continue, having started with Undyne and Alphys. They had gotten more questions, more _personal_ questions about domestic life and secrets to tell the whole Underground.

They had also gotten most of them right.

Undyne doesn’t bat an eye when Mettaton asks about who gets up earlier. You’re not even sure why she can blink since she’s mostly fish, partially screams. “Me,” she answers, “Alphys sleeps till mid afternoon a lot.”

“Work is tiring.” her girlfriend murmurs beside you, too quiet to defend herself from the roaring crowd.

You attempt to nudge her with your shoulder, but your snigger takes away any comfort in the gesture. “By that, you mean ‘anime marathon nights’, right?”

Her tail swats at your legs with mock irritation. “You’ll be joining us soon.”

“You’re saying that to the ambassador, Alphys. I’ll be very busy making the worst sentient species kiss and make up with monsterkind.” you point out, leaning against your podium leisurely, tone coated with plastic condescension.

“Humans can’t be that bad.” She pauses, then looks at you. “Right?”

The searching uncertainty of her voice makes you glance at the big screen, watching Team A’s point increase for a correct answer and an embarrassing fact. “They’re stubborn and tend to fight a lot. Now please have a little mercy on me and Grillby and stop getting all the answers right.”

“Hey, I’m not the only one wanting to see you two clean up the mess.” Alphys says with a shrug, previous doubt dissolving away.

Before you can retort about how Cooking With a Killer Robot will always be hell, Mettaton calls for Alphys. He holds a card in a hand, briefly judging the handwriting and reminding you of how robots and captcha do not mix. “Final question for Team A! Alphys, what was the last thing you and Undyne argued about?”

She tugs at the spider silk that hold her wrists together. “Uh, whether I was brave enough to be part of tonight’s show?” she tries, head tilting in attempt to recall. “Either that or the fastest way to cook spaghetti.”

Somewhere, Papyrus screams in approval.

“You’re going to have to choose one, darling.”

Red and blue movement catches you attention. You don’t have to lean to see Undyne shaking her head without regard of whether she is seen making unauthorized communication. She knows Mettaton isn’t looking, but, much to her disappointment, neither is Alphys.

In all honesty, you would help if you weren’t desperate to avoid losing and if Undyne actually showed an expression of either option. Answering ‘no’ to a choice question just goes nowhere.

“T-the first one, then.” Alphys decides promptly. “Yeah, about tonight’s show.” she repeats with a firmer tone and a nod.

Mettaton purses his lips. “Well, Undyne here claims you last argued about whether Nice Cream was worth the money.”

“IT WAS!”

“Yelling is against the rules, Undyne, so keep your mouth closed or we’ll have the spiders do so for you.” Mettaton purrs, acid dripping from his voice despite its sweetness. The audience hardly notices the non-lethal threat, laughing at the scene.

Alphys just sheepishly shrugs, fingers twitching behind her back.

You would pat her shoulder if your hands were not bound together. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

You shrug. “It says a lot about your relationship. It also says that you two don’t argue a lot and when you do, it’s trivial and not destroying your bond.” you say, tone levelled as you glance at Grillby. “It’s nice.”

You think she smiles at you. At least, until you fidget with your tied wrists and purposefully mutter, “Man, those spiders really left us in a bind.”

“...You need to stop hanging out with Sans.”

Your stifled laughter is interrupted by Mettaton calling for you and Grillby to be ready to answer. The spotlight shifts, drowning you in blue light and attention. Six question each, four questions less than what Undyne and Alphys got, but the total points are still divided accordingly. Each question weighs more now and the thought of higher stakes causes your heart to boil with determination.

Time to prove what worth you are as a lover.

You worry at your bottom lip to stop yourself from yelling anything on impulse. Across the stage, Grillby remains as passive as you remember. A twist in your guts makes you wish you were as nonchalant as him, but you push that thought aside and tell yourself that a life with the two skeleton brothers would teach you selective indifference eventually.

Mettaton flips through your answers and hums thoughtfully, though from his lack of confusion, you assume it’s all an act. “All right then,” he says, “let us begin Team B’s turn, starting with our lovely Grillby. I hope you both have good memory!”

The crowds laughs. You don’t understand why they do.

“First question, Grillby: What was your Beta wearing when it started?”

Good memory isn’t needed; you haven’t changed your clothes since falling. Though you had found plenty of clothes lying around on your journey, it didn’t feel right to wear something that belonged to the deceased. The dust on the tutu still unnerves you, and the heart locket sometimes beats in your hands.

Grillby doesn’t miss a beat, describing what you are wearing now. You self-consciously glance at your bandage when he mentions it. It’s still sticky against your skin, a nuisance that does not want to let go. Other than that, you still have dirt to wash off, tears to stitch up and stuff to burn. Toriel and Asgore would probably help you until you become as fresh as a dog from the grooming salon.

You only look up when you hear Mettaton calling your name, then cock your head when you realise that he had not addressed you as ‘the human’. You don’t have time to wonder when he learned it before he asks, “Where did it start?”

“Grillby’s,” you say, almost too soon, too sure, and the accidental tone of preparedness has Mettaton delighted.

“Well then, confidence is key on TV.” The points are pouring with light-hearted sounds as he focuses back on your date. “Grillby, tell us who spoke first and what did they say?”

You follow Mettaton’s gaze, wondering whether it would be fair to mouth the words ‘good job’ since Undyne had liberally shaken her head before. You try and pray that you don’t get gagged by the spiders.

The fire monster takes the hint before any happens, much to your relief, granting you time to anticipate and predict the questions that follow. The sound of the increasing points prove distracting when you barely manage to list blatant facts about the time you indirectly asked Grillby out on this date. The memory clings to your mind like a faded stain on cloth, vague but still distinguishable if you tried.

You don’t have to try much. Mettaton winks at you for the umpteenth time, mostly because you can only see one of his eyes. You’re not even sure if he has two eyes, considering the fact that, from the fanart on the laboratory's work desk, Alphys isn’t good at drawing the other eye.

Mettaton notices your distracted gaze and stretches an arm over to flick your chin up. You blink and shake your head like an offended cat, glaring half-heartedly at him as he asks, “What was Grillby doing, darling?”

“His job.”

He stares at you, eyes half-lidded, lips pulled into what could have been a frown or a subconsciously open look of judgement. He looks at the card, shrugs and replaces the moment’s expression with a practised smile. “Close enough, I suppose.”

Your lips form a frown at his statement, mostly at how he speaks slowly, like an exhausted teacher to a difficult student. You can’t tell if he’s disappointed or tired, but the pacifist side of you – which is to say most of you – is reluctant to indirectly antagonize the show-bot. This is his final show and you’re certain he wants your ‘relationship’ with Grillby to flow smoothly. You raise your voice enough to quickly add, “He was wiping a glass.”

Playing along satisfies Mettaton enough if the sincere smile says anything. He resumes his stage persona a heartbeat later. “Team B’s Alpha!” he calls, changing the answer cue cards. “What is one your partner’s fears?”

You blink. That can’t be right; the question asked you for multiple fears, not just one. You can only assume that lowering the bar also meant accepting similar answers and a better chance at guessing – you both barely know each other, after all. Better than narrowing down the answers to be specific like Undyne and Alphys had to.

At the sight of confusion on Mettaton’s face, broadcasted clearly on the screen, you stop.

You remember.

You didn’t write anything.

You left a goddamn _dot_ on the answer key.

Panic warps and whips within you, causing you to bite your tongue until you think you taste blood, fingers digging loose crescents into your palms as you try not to scream. It comes out as quiet keening, like a wounded animal mixed with a broken radio. You want to slam your head against the podium and hopefully black out and end this mess, but you can’t. You just can’t. Panic is electricity that crashes through your limbs until you can no longer feel them.

Alphys lets out a squeak of shock and both Undyne and Grillby stares at your stillness. You think that you’re bleeding from your mouth to earn that sort of attention. As you struggle to swallow what you can and roughly wipe your lips against your shoulder, Grillby’s flames grow with concern, or maybe it’s fear. You can’t tell.

“They need help.” is the first thing he says as you confirm that you’re bleeding. It isn’t much, but the sudden red startles you like the warning colour it has always been.

Uncertainty and confusion stir within the audience like a building wave, but Mettaton efficiently handles the situation by calling for someone to check on you before calmly placating the Underground about the ‘totally normal human malfunction that Alphys knows plentiful about because of her research’.

You think you can hear Asgore and Toriel somewhere in the distance. It’s hard to tell when you’re suddenly busy explaining what the approaching assistant needs to be done with a bitten tongue and the sharp taste of copper in your mouth. The closest thing to ice in Hotland is a Nice Cream popsicle, wrapper and all. It feels foolish to have that in your mouth, pressing against your wounded tongue, but the relief and the Nice Cream Guy’s hopeful worry make it worth the perceived embarrassment. He is jollily escorted off the stage as the panic in you dies down, consume by solemn acceptance of your metaphorical death from the game show. It’s difficult to scold yourself for your reaction to the absolute chance of failing one single question. Instead, you sink behind the podium, hoping for the show to continue so it ends sooner.

Alphys sits beside you, tail steadying her as her hands cannot. “Are you alright?”

You try to answer, only to find your words muffled by the Nice Cream. It is dropped onto your thigh with less grace than manageable, more blood-threaded spit than anticipated. “Yeah, just freaked out a little.” you explain with a thin chuckle that unnerves more than it comforts. Clearing your throat, you try a different angle; “Humans leak for lots of reasons.”

Despite the circumstances and her scales, she seems to blush, stricken shock tugging at her features before you burst out in consciously quiet laughter. It fizzles the knot in your guts like bubbling acid, and as much as it burns, you appreciate the sudden change of inner emotions.

“Oh,” you rasp out, “ _oh_ , but you should already know that, huh?”

She smacks you with her tail, accidentally knocking the Nice Cream onto the floor. You let out a feigned noise of disgust, claiming that you aren’t going to put it back in your mouth since it is now covered into MTT-brand confetti and glitter, wrapped or not. Your tongue doesn’t hurt nearly enough to convince you otherwise.

Alphys pushes herself up and offers you her tail to pull you up with. It curls around an arm as you shift your weight to your knees, pulling some of your weight as you mirror her actions. It is only when you stand and rejoin the show that you realise that the incident was wrapped up and resolved so quickly that not everybody knew what had happened. Grillby’s words had confused most of them and Mettaton’s made most of them assume the malfunction was the sudden stillness, not the fact that you bit yourself.

You don’t know if you’re grateful for that fact.

You forget to blink for a while, leaning against the podium-desk as Mettaton carefully prompts the show’s continuation to Grillby. The burning monster doesn’t give him an immediate answer, waiting for you to give a signal that you too are ready to continue. You nod to him, certain that the situation only looks more serious than it is, mostly because you presume monsters like Grillby have never seen or known of blood. Maybe they would think of the red as Determination and try to utilise it again.

You should have written that as your fear.

No, no. Not the time. Focus, goddammit, _focus_.

You resort to watching Grillby in attempt to anchor your switching thoughts, unable to tell if he’s returning the gaze because he doesn’t have any eyes. Nevertheless, you still see concern in his flames, more relieved than fearful, and the fact calms you enough for you to stop grimacing.

The quiz show continues.

Grillby takes a moment, maybe to stall or just to decide. “When progress meets the end,” he says in response to the question about your fears. You blink and straighten your stance, both surprised yet not by the fact that he remembered something as trivial as a moment’s muse back on the boat. It is not exact, but it stirs bemusement in you nevertheless. To wish for things to stop but never end, to fear when either conclusion is reached when somebody opens the box of Schrödinger’s Cat that has become your life. What would you do when one goal is reached? Start over, perhaps find something new. You don’t want to have those thoughts lingering in your head for long.

Thankfully, Mettaton snatches your attention away with a quiet, “Oh.” He looks down at the card between his fingers with a sly smile, glancing at you and Grillby, then back at the card. “Oh my, you two beauties certainly are in sync, aren’t you?”

You shoot him a puzzled look instead of shaking your head like logic wants.

He just smiles wider and covers his mouth with a hand, laughing and flipping the card for the camera to see your ‘answer’. The audience doesn’t react much until he says, “What better way to represent the end than with a full stop? Grillby, you have a very poetic date.”

That… worked out?

_That worked out._

Somehow, you manage to focus your gaze on Grillby, though anywhere and everywhere but his glasses. It takes a conscious effort to maintain what poor eye contact you have. You try not to glance away when you see him wink without eyes, chuckling sheepishly under your breath instead.

Yeah, you could do this. You have Grillby and plenty of luck. You say ‘luck’ instead of ‘help’ because Mettaton looks like he genuinely thinks that the answers match, not out of desperate loopholes.

The crowd goes off at the resulting points, some even cheering for you and Grillby by name, and the support fills you with determination.

You steel what confidence you have dwindling within you when Mettaton asks you about what Grillby hopes for. You pause, wondering whether wishes count as hopes. With nothing to lose, you try to quote the boat ride, much like Grillby did for you. 'For everything to get better' sounds more wistful on your lips than you remember.

Your mind adjusts to the flow of the game until everything plays out quicker than it is. Mettaton asks Grillby about your bad habits and lets his answer slide with half the points, considering that ‘poor eye contact’ is technically a sign of ‘poor attention span’. You haven’t realised how much you don’t keep eye contact until Grillby mentions it, and yet your subconscious tempts you to look to the side in mild embarrassment.

The next question asks about Grillby’s hobbies, a subject you haven’t learned much about other than the superficial. Surely, he enjoys cooking since he’s continuing his work on the surface, right? You aren’t sure. The only thing right so far is Mettaton’s promise that the quiz would help you learn about Grillby; he likes the arts and is beginning to explore and enjoy the possibilities of knitting.

You try to imagine him in a scarf, then an ugly Christmas sweater, then something fluffier like Sans’ hoodie until it’s both fittingly and uncharacteristically flamboyant. It’s hard to hide your amusement, even harder when Grillby gives you an expression crossed between starting a question and ending one.

He nails your ‘significant quality’ like it’s been a joke throughout your entire adventure, and you grab the opportunity to quote an old childhood movie when asked to describe him in three words – or in your case, three synonyms: “Cool, calm and collected.”

Not completely wrong, but not completely accurate, either. You still have more to learn about him.

The spider questions earns you both more attention and amusement than you deemed comfortable. Mettaton allows a brief verbal exchange only so that it can reap more delight from the audience.

Grillby starts by answering that you would. “I’ve never seen a spider until today.” he admits, ignoring the commotion better than you.

You raise an eyebrow, more from disbelief than skepticism. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I hope today’s experience didn’t _bug_ you.”

The whole Underground practically splits into two: half of them groaning, the other half laughing, all mixed in collective chaos. Papyrus’ scream is surprisingly easy to make out of all the noise. You wonder if Toriel and Sans are proud of what you have become.

Grillby cocks his head to the side in what seems to be confusion. “Spiders aren’t bugs.”

Before you can think of a reply, Mettaton swiftly interrupts the moment with a laugh and a dismissive wave of his glossy metal hand. “Now now, darlings, as much as it would be a delightful addition to tonight, do remember what we’re all here for!” he informs, voice singsong.

You blink. “My suffering?”

He reaches over to pinch your cheek. “Successful relationships, a wonderful experience together and plenty of passionate smooches, darling.”

“I can’t kiss what doesn’t have a face, Mettaton.”

He shoves a finger against your lips in a not-so-subtle way of telling you to shut up, pressing the flesh of your mouth sharply against your teeth. “Now that’s just insensitive to all the monsters who lack certain facial features. What would Grillby think?” he chides, tsking with mock sympathy and flicking at your lips promptly as if to emphasis his point. He retracts his arm before you can bite his finger.

“Now then, lovelies, let’s move on to the final question for Team B.” He changes the answer key over as you nudge at the Nice Cream near your feet. “What would Grillby say to an Echo Flower?”

You stare at the fallen Nice Cream as you think. As much as you both had to pass by patches of Echo Flowers on your trip thus far, Grillby didn’t speak to them at all. To replace the old tales and heartwarming wishes is to erase another piece of history, something you doubt Grillby would do on purpose.

You look at Grillby for a clue, but get nothing.

So you give nothing.

“He wouldn’t.” you answer. If your arms weren’t tied, they would be crossed over your chest in either defiance or defence. Subconscious demands that it feels unnatural to have to leave your front exposed.

Mettaton raised a metallic brow. “You two certainly are lucky tonight, hmm? I thought we had allocated ample time for all of you.” He looks at Grillby pointedly. You can’t tell if he’s impressed or sarcastic when he asks, “Did our silent wordsmith run out of words?”

Watching Grillby for an answer, a smile appears in the fire, less knowing and more sheepish than you expect to see. Mettaton’s explanation is more straightforward, presenting a blank cue card like a magic trick before tossing it aside to be eaten by an assistant. You’re surprised he doesn’t make Burgerpants eat it.

It’s hard to tell whether Grillby’s answer is deliberately blank or done by accident, but you feel the warmth of appreciation and determination in your chest. A glance at the scoreboard confirms that you and Grillby are not far behind Alphys and Undyne. Lose or not, at least you’ll do so with dignity, a sense of thankfulness for Grillby and, hopefully, another chance to actually date him out properly – without your friends interfering.

You make a mental note to get his number so you can text next time.

As Mettaton concludes the first game and willingly drowns himself in the applause, you feel two large spiders dropping onto your head. They skitter down your back to your wrists, snapping off the silk binds with swift slices of their fangs. You murmur your gratitude politely, rolling your wrists and flexing your fingers.

From the corner of your eye, you see Undyne and Alphys using their returned freedom to exchange encouraging gestures. Or rather, Undyne is encouraging while Alphys nervously attempts to placate her somewhat. Near the ex-Royal Guard Captain, Grillby stands less animated and seemingly more assured that neither of you need to signal each other.

You shoot him a thumbs-up anyway. He nods in return.

With the music changing and Mettaton announcing the next game – the crowd literally roars with both excitement and hostility when he asks them for something you fail to catch – you take what precious time you’re granted to check yourself. Your phone is vibrating in your pocket with concerned messages from both Toriel and Asgore, apologies in all caps from Papyrus and several badly taken photos from Sans – did he throw the phone for one of them? You tuck it away, then fumble to prevent the pink glitter pen from dropping when you pull your hand out. Your other pocket feels weirdly proportioned thanks to the jar lid and you attempt to balance the size and weight of it by picking up and stuffing the Nice Cream to join the lid.

It’s cold and glittery and full of kindness.

You shudder at the unworldly sensations and try to focus on the show. Burgerpants is back on the stage, still covered in pieces of crinkly clingfilm as he drags a temporary wall to the centre of the stage, splitting the limelight into two. He gives you a forced jittery grin, sweating and heaving even though, by Mettaton’s miraculous mercy, the wall has wheels.

“Good luck, little buddy.” Burgerpants wheezes through gritted teeth. He doesn’t get the opportunity to see you giving him a smile of debatable intended integrity, scurrying offstage before the security tries to hurls him off.

You watch, wait, then let out a huff of breath, not quite a sigh but not quite an actual exhale. As you comb your fingers through your hair, you catch the spiders’ flower between your knuckles. It stands in your grasp, artificial in appearance but organic in form, gleaming gold and smelling like MTT-brand perfume based on Asgore’s favourite tea.

Something possesses you, but its presence and influence are not unwelcomed.

You’ll keep it – for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIGHT | > ACT | ITEM | MERCY
> 
> > * Foreshaodw
> 
> * You try to convince the Reader that everything will add up in the end, but you aren't sure if there even is an end.


End file.
